


I will seek you through the centuries

by Butterfish



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Love, M/M, Pain, Romance, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 21:51:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14860943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Butterfish/pseuds/Butterfish
Summary: Arthur is living on an island in perfect isolation when Alfred is washed ashore. Alfred seems from a different world. But perhaps so is Arthur.





	1. Change

I always imagined myself dying in water. Not drowning, just dying. Perhaps it’s a byproduct caused by living on a small island. Since I was little, I would watch the waves crash against the cliffs as the sun set. My parents would take me on long hikes along the coastline, and I would stare out into the horizon, imagining that the water continued forever and nothing else existed out there. Somehow it gave me peace of mind to imagine complete isolation. It was a feeling that stuck with me throughout my teenage years and early adulthood.

Until now.

To be honest, my first thought is walking right past it. The body is curled up like a ball, as if it’s a stone the water is trying to wash smooth. Maybe if I left it, hundreds of years from now people will look at the bones and not even know them from the white sandstone pebbles. It is not that I do not care - I’ve heard of big cities in which people will march past the dying because they just don’t notice them anymore. I am not hardened by life. But I am aware of the circle of life. We are born, and then we die. I cannot change it.

I gaze across the water. It’s a clear morning, and I can see far. I think that perhaps a ship has capsized, but it seems unlikely. Not only is the harbour on the opposite end of the island, but there should be signs of a wreck. Of course, they could have been travelling in a boat, yet this is more unlikely. The waters here are too unpredictable. Only a fool would venture into these parts, and a fool would not have the luck to be washed ashore whole.

My German Shepherd has caught up with me. She is less hesitant than I; she approaches the body, ignoring my shushing her away, and sniffs at its legs. She moves up, pushes her snout in between the arms, and the body rolls over. It’s a man, I can tell. A young one.

My dog starts licking at his face. I walk over and wave at her, “Away, girl,” and she takes a step back and watches me. I kneel next to him. His blond hair clings to his face. It’s handsome, I cannot deny, strong bone-structure although his cheeks hollow in slightly. I gather he has not eaten well for weeks. A rough stubble from his chin down his neck tells me he may have been at sea for a while.

The sun reflects in something at his neck. I reach over and grab at the metal disk. It’s cold between my fingers, and I turn it over and read the inscription out loud, “Alfred Jones.”

His eyes open. I stir, and my dog starts barking. They are bright blue, and as he stares at the sky, I see the clouds reflected in them. Slowly, as if he almost doesn’t dare, his gaze slips to me, and our eyes meet.

My mouth suddenly feels dry, and I don’t know why, but that childhood feeling of isolation, that sense of living in a place where only this island exist, suddenly washes away. It’s like my body is drained of everything it has ever believed in. This man I am looking at, he is not a product of my world, and I not of his.

His lips move as if to speak, but instead of words water escapes them. He gurgles, and I come back to my senses. I grab at his shoulders and turn him on his side as he starts coughing up the ocean. It’s like it’s never ending - he gags and gasps for air in between the violent jolts of his body pushing water up and out his lungs. I rock him a little back and forth, mumbling, “Good boy,” once in a while, although I’m becoming aware that we must be roughly the same age. “Let it out.”

The man, Alfred supposedly, grunts one last time before he stops. For a moment, I think he’s dead. His body stops moving, his nostrils aren’t flaring, and his eyes seem to gaze at nothing. But then his hand reaches for my arm, and his fingers dig into the thickness of my sweater. His gaze once again seeks mine. His lips shiver. I give him time. Then he whispers, “Thank you.”

I nod. “You’re welcome,” I say.

“Am I dead?” he asks.

I find myself smiling. I look around - rough plains of grass stretch far behind us, only broken up by the distant cliffs which rise like mountains. “Does it look like heaven to you?” I ask jokingly.

“You do,” he says.

I look back down at him and grab at his hand. I hold it as I help him sit up. I don’t expect him to be able to, but he must have had some strength saved up - he manages to cross his legs and sit, slightly leaned forward, his hand still in mine. I have let go, but his fingers are still closed around mine. He is looking around.

“You must wonder where you are,” I say.

“I think I am dead,” he says. His voice is quiet and unassuming.

“Rosie here is very much alive,” I say and wave my dog closer.

She slowly comes over and sniffs at Alfred’s legs once again. He holds out his free hand and she gives it a lick. He smiles,

“She sure is.”

I watch the sun reflect in his tag. It dangles back and forth from the chain around his neck. “Your name is Alfred?”

He glances at me, his fingers slipping through Rosie’s fur. “You’ve dug through my stuff?”

I snort. “All you’ve got is what’s on you.”

He smiles, as if he knows something I don’t, and looks back out across the water. “I suppose it’s all gone, then.”

“You’re not making much sense.”

“I guess swallowing water does that to you.”

I cock my head to the side as he takes in the sight. The sun is higher on the sky now, and it’s clear daylight. A seagull flies over us, screeching. “What happened? Are you feeling okay?”

“What’s your name?” he asks and looks at me.

“I’m Arthur,” I say and repeat, “You feeling okay?” but he just stares at me, his eyes widening. His hand on mine tightens. If he squeezes any more, all blood might stop flowing to my palm. I try to pull back, “That hurts-” but he pulls me closer.

“You’re Arthur?” he asks.

I nod hesitantly. “Yes?”

“Arthur what?”

“Kirkland?”

For a second, I feel like I’m being interrogated, and that I have made a big mistake. As if my name is a revelation I should have kept to myself. Many emotions wash across Alfred’s face - confusion, surprise, hesitation, disbelief - and finally he lets go of me. He pushes both his hands through his wet, stiff locks, leans his head back, and then shouts at the sky,

“Thank you!”

I stand up and wonder just how much water he swallowed.

He bellows again, “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” before smiling at me. “Arthur!”

“Yes?” I mutter.

“I have been looking for you for so, so long.” He starts to get up, and I take a step back and hold my hands up in front of me.

“Mate, I really think you need to sit down-”

“I have been looking for you for over a hundred years,” he says, and now I am sure he has gone mad. Even Rosie moves in front of me. She is not growling, but I can tell she doesn’t like the way Alfred is acting.

He stands up tall - wet, his thin shirt and rugged trousers clinging to his body - and he holds out his hand toward me as he says, “Let me bring you home.” And in that moment, as the sun rests behind his head, it causes his body to fall dark and his frame to light up with a glory I have not seen before. It is like he is not real, and for a moment I wonder like he did - am I dead?

Then, just like that, he collapses at my feet. As if all the strength is sucked out of him and his body cannot go any further. Both Rosie and I stand for a few seconds, unsure of what has happened, but then I finally sigh and draw my mobile. I press in the number and say,

“Hello, yes, it’s me. No, I’m okay, but, I am going to need some help up here…”

And just like that, my life changes forever.


	2. Revelation

As the helicopter takes off, I lean up against the fence and light a cigarette. I close my eyes as the air pushes toward me and the roar from the engine fills my ears. Then, slowly, both disappear, and I’m left with the light breeze from the ocean. I open my eyes and watch the helicopter until it’s swallowed up by the horizon. I am left to the grasslands again.

The doctor was stunned. At first, he lectured me. “Travelling this distance is no joke,” he said as I served him tea in my kitchen. “That man in there - Alfred, did you say? - there is no way he was washed ashore. He is as healthy as you and I. Maybe more so.”

“You saw where I found him,” I protested. “I thought he was dead.”

“Well, I just find it unbelievable.”

“You and I both,” I said. We both raised our cups of tea and looked through the cracked door to the living room. Alfred was laying on my sofa, blankets tucked around his now dried body, and he appeared asleep.

“You and I both,” I mumble again and wave at the sky although the doctor is long gone. I then turn and glance downhill toward my home. Alfred must have awoken while we walked back to the helipad. I can see him standing outside, a blanket loosely wrapped around him as he takes in the surroundings. I decide to take the stroll in slow but long strides as I consider what to do next.

I am not used to having people around. Since my parents passed away, I have enjoyed the freedom of being alone. Not lonely, and the distinction to me is like this: loneliness is a state of emotion you are forced to experience whereas aloneness is the completion of self-discovery. I need no one else. As I overcame the pain of putting my mum and dad in the ground, I found a new sense of life. In the rugged island, I saw my own ruggedness - nature can be unforgiving, but still more can humans. I wonder what kind of person Alfred may be.

As he sees me, he smiles and starts walking to meet me. “I can’t believe a place like this exists,” he says and turns his back on me to gaze at the mountain range in the distance.

“What kind of place do you come from?” I ask and blow out smoke. I roll the cigarette between my fingertips as I watch him, careful to not miss anything, but his face gives nothing away.

“Do you go climbing?”

“Sometimes.” I have another drag of my smoke and nod toward the nearest peak. “See that one there, with the snow? Went there last year. I’ve got a place halfway up.”

Alfred narrows his eyes. “Yeah, I think I see it.”

“Something wrong with your sight?” I ask. For a moment, I wonder if the doctor did not do a throughout job and perhaps his eyes were damaged. But when Alfred looks at me, I know there is nothing wrong with those bright blues.

“I’ve lost my glasses, to the sea,” he says.

“Ah, the water got you,” I mumble and rest the cigarette between my lips. I narrow my eyes. “You know, while you slept I had someone look over you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“A doctor,” I feel the need to clarify. I blow out smoke and watch it wander with the wind. “He said you haven’t been at sea.”

“Mysterious,” he says and I raise my brows.

“I’d say.”

“Mysterious,” he nods again, “I wonder where all that water in my lungs came from.”

I grit my teeth and drop my smoke to the ground, putting it out with the heel of my boot. He’s got a point, I realise, and it makes me rethink once again how good the doctor really is. Perhaps he was merely in a hurry to get back. It’s not like the capital’s hospital has got a lot of beds. When most people live and die on the island they were born, there is no reason to move them to care.

Yet, I am left with the question of what to do with Alfred.

As clouds drift past above us, they drag shadows along with them. We stand in silence and watch them slip away. I don’t know why, but I feel obliged to show Alfred hospitality, so I ask, “Want some lunch?” and we head back inside.

I start putting out bread and meat and cheese, and Alfred watches me from the kitchen table, the doctor’s empty cup still in front of him. While the kettle is brewing, I take a seat across from him and fold my hands on the sticky tablecloth. “So,” I say, and he mimics my position. “You said you’ve come to take me home?”

Alfred’s eyes seem to light up. “Sure has,” he nods, “I’ve been looking long enough.”

“So, where’s home?” I fish out another smoke from the pocket of my jeans and light it.

Alfred leans back in his seat and balances on the two back legs of the chair. “Oh, far from here.”

“Why have you been looking for me?” I ask.

His lips tug up at one side. “Man, you won’t believe me if I say.”

“Probably.” I blow out smoke and grab the ashtray from the sill next to us. I place it in the middle of the table and drop some ashes into it. “But you seem to have gone through a lot of trouble to meet me.”

“It’s kind of a sad story,” Alfred says.

I smile. “Oh, no. What’s this, Romeo and Juliet tragic or Hamlet tragic?”

He shakes his head and laughs. “You really are him,” he says looking down.

The kettle whistles. I get up and pour us tea. “I like romantic stories,” I joke.

“I am sorry, Arthur, I didn’t expect it to happen the way it did,” he says, and I furrow my brows.

I put the kettle away and sit down. “Please eat,” I say and gesture at the food, but before I can pull my hand back he grabs it and leans in over the table.

“Arthur, this can stop now,” he says, staring into my eyes. His gaze is intense. I feel my heart beating quicker, and the rush of blood makes my cheeks darken. “This can stop now. I’m sorry, it’s not what I wanted, trust me. But it must stop. I cannot go on much longer.” He is so close his breath slips across my face when he speaks. It’s uncomfortable, having a stranger this close, so I scoot back, but he seems to follow. As he does so, his elbow pushes the empty cup, and it falls to the floor and shatters.

The sound catches him off guard and he loosens the grip on my hand. I take the opportunity to slip out of his grasp and kneel on the floor. “Look at this,” I say, my cheeks still warm. I fixate my gaze on the broken pieces as I pick them up, one by one.

“I’m sorry,” Alfred says, but I am not sure what part he is apologising for.

“You can sleep on the sofa tonight,” I say, “but then I want you gone.” I look up at him. He is looking out of the window, so I can’t see his face, but his shoulders are sunken and his hands fisted in his lap. “I’m sorry too,” I say. I don’t know what I’m apologising for either. I get up and trudge outside to get rid of the broken mug, but more so to get a moment away from him.

My dog, Rosie, runs in and out between my legs as I walk to the skips at the outskirts of my property. The closer I get, the more I slow down. I look at the broken pieces in my palms. Something inside of me is shifting. It’s like a memory I can’t quite place.

I once read that deja vu is just the brain trying to apply a memory to something familiar, whether or not such a memory exists. Perhaps that is what I am experiencing. But somewhere inside of me, I know I know Alfred. I know I have not only seen him before, but I have held his hand prior to today. I have held it willingly. I have held him willingly. I have kissed him.

“Oh, god,” I whisper as I look at my hands. I have closed them tightly around the broken porcelain, and it has cut me. Thick blood drips from between my fingers to the ground, and Rosie whines in confusion. But I can’t undo my hands. It is like they are frozen.

I am shaking. I don’t know what is happening to me, but something is unlocking. Something I have kept away.

The isolation is broken.

As I close my eyes, I see him. He is asleep. My heart hurts. I say, “Goodbye, may we meet again.” Then, there is only darkness.

When I open my eyes, Alfred is in front of me. He is slowly undoing my grab, unfolding one finger after the other, and picking out the pieces from the wounds I have caused myself. He doesn’t try to catch my gaze, but I try to catch his as he asks, “What happened?”

I blink, and I feel wetness at the edges of my eyes. As I look up, clouds have drifted above us. They are large and dark, and a bit of rain has started to fall. The air feels heavy. “Who are you?” I ask.

“It is very beautiful here,” Alfred says, uncurling one more of my fingers, “but it is all a lie, Arthur. It’s just another lie you have created for yourself.”

“Who am I?” I ask, and this time my voice is barely a whisper.

Alfred looks me in the eyes, and he smiles a little smile. “You’re Arthur Kirkland. You’re England. And it is time to come home.”


	3. Before

I have always hated the thought of eternity. The concept of things never coming to an end seems tiring to me. No matter how good a movie is, or how thrilling I find a book, without a conclusion there is only time, and time that carries on forever loses its excitement. Yet from the moment I was able to walk and talk I had to find peace with the fact that death would never come upon me. As a nation, I would not pass. Even if my lands were to be conquered and my people were to vanish, I would live on in the history books. As long as there was a sliver of a memory, however small, I would get to continue my existence into perpetuity.

However I never voiced my feelings, and perhaps that’s why they thought they could scare me. 

I remember the room. The heavy curtains, pulled. The stuffy air. The cold mahogany table. They sat in front of me as nameless faces, anonymous representants of the nations, and they told me of directives and legislations I already knew all about. They tried to speak lies.

“As a nation, you are free to choose your way of life,” they said.

“As long as it follows the opinions and wants of my people,” I commented.

“You can be with whoever you want to be with.”

“As long as it follows the opinions and wants of my people.”

“You can even fall in love.”

“ _ As long as it follows the opinions and wants of my people. _ ” I was angry, but calm. I made sure to look at each one of them as I spoke. They avoided my glare. “I appreciate that you are bound by duty, but do not try to make my duty sound any less restricted than it is. My duty is my being. If I act or feel or speak differently from how my nation feels? - well, that would almost make me human, wouldn’t it?”

“You are free to feel,” someone said. When I looked at them, they looked down, their lips resting on the tip of their pen. “We do not wish to restrain your feelings-”

“-but if I were to act on them?” I shook my head and smiled a little. “I am no fool.”

“We never claimed you to be one,” someone else said. “But we believe you have acted inappropriately, you have abandoned your duty of care to your people by engaging in-...” Their voice trailed off.

Someone else continued, “Yes, what we are here to discuss - or rather, what we are here to clarify, I should say, is your current position.”

“What is my current position?” I asked, arms crossed.

There was a silence. This time, as someone spoke, they didn’t avert my eyes. I looked into theirs, dark and unknown, as they said: “Mr Kirkland, if you wish to create a life for yourself, you can. You may not be aware, but you have options. You can become human. But there is a catch.” They stopped, as if to await my reaction, but as I did not move they continued: “You will lose your eternity.”

In that second, I should have been scared. I should have felt at loss. I should have felt conflicted and worried and unsure of what to do. I should have felt sick to the core. The idea of death was not spoken about among nations. Death did not exist, so why bother? To all, it was such a foreign concept that even spending a second considering where it could lead was a waste. However, to all but myself. This was what I had fantasized about at night, the one thing I could not have which I so longed for. This was my chance to create a reason for living.

In that moment, I knew instantly how I could save not only myself but also Alfred. I just had to do things right.

My first step was not telling him about the meeting. When I returned to my quarters later that day, he was waiting for me by the gate. He smiled at me, and I smiled back at him as I withdrew my keys and let him inside. “Have you been here all day?” I asked.

“Would you think less of me if I said yes?” he asked. When I raised my brows at him, his smile deepend and he said, “In that case - of course not.”

We spent the evening together as we always did. We had dinner. We discussed politics. We shared new ideas and suggested official meetings that could take place in the nearby future. We were perfect examples of nations. Then we were perfect examples of disaster - we touched, we kissed, we retreated to the bedroom. We forgot our duties and remembered only that we were alive in that moment, for us, for our needs and wants and desires, whatever they may be. We forgot that we were not allowed to have them. That was my second step of the plan. I could not have him believe that anything was different between us.

But everything was different.

Later, as we sat in bed, him watching telly and I smoking, I wondered how different things would have been if we had been born humans. Perhaps we would have bought a house. Perhaps we would have had children. Perhaps we would have lived the life of a typical nuclear family, facing arguments and cheating and near-divorce before finding common ground and spending the last years of our lives happy, surrounded by grandchildren and holding hands in the living room of our remortgaged house. Painfully common. Painfully perfect.

Now, we lived our lives in secret. Only behind closed doors and guarded gates did we dare to let loose and love. What was the point? Surely in the future our national relations would suffer, and we could no longer meet even officially, and then how would we sneak a kiss? Maybe a time would come when we would only face each other on the battlefield. And even then it would mean nothing, both of us sure to survive, both of us sure to reunite at some unknown time in the future, just to do it all over again.

I put out my smoke and sighed.

“I know,” Alfred said, his eyes still focussed on the telly. “It’s a sad romance.”

I looked at the couple on screen, crying and fumbling for each other in the water surrounding them, and I joked, “I like romantic stories.”

“This one is tragic.”

“Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet?”

Alfred smiled at me. “More like, Alfred and Arthur tragic.”

I smiled too and reached over to touch his hair. He pushed his head into the palm of my hand as I drew my fingers through his locks. “I wish things could be different.”

“I know,” he said, “Titanic is so sad.”

“Not that,” I rolled my eyes. “I’m talking of us.”

“It’s not so bad,” he said and grabbed my hand. He kissed each knuckle and looked at me, his lips still pressed to my skin, “Look at them. They die. Apart. And she feels pain forever. We will never have to face that. You and I - we can be together for centuries.” And he smiled such a childish smile that I had to return it, but inside my heart was clenching tight. Because I realised that Alfred did not understand. And perhaps he never would.

That night, as he slept, I called them. I said, “I am ready. Tell me what to do.”

“Are you sure?” they asked. “You will have to erase everything you ever knew. You will have to start from scratch. You will have to recreate yourself and your past and present and the world around you. It can take a long time.”

I snorted, “Longer than eternity?”

There was a silence. Then, “Meet us by the gate in half an hour.”

I returned to the bedroom to get dressed. The movie was no longer playing, but the DVD menu was going on repeat. I grabbed the remote and started it, forwarding the movie to the moment when the two lovers were struggling in the water. I watched the scene, again and again, and I thought to myself - this is how it has to be. One has to let go for the other one to survive. One has to leave to ensure their love lives on. One must let the water swallow them whole.

I turned to look at Alfred. He was still sleeping, one of his arms stretched across my side of the bed. I got up, leaned in close but didn’t dare to touch him in case he would wake, and I whispered, “Goodbye, may we meet again.”

As such, I walked out, never to return.


	4. Future

I watch the sun set. The clouds are glowing red. They stretch above me, further inland, and across the distant mountain range. It is not raining anymore, but the fresh smell of water is still heavy in the air. I drag my hands across the stiff grass and smell my fingertips. I smell earth and dew. My surroundings are still very real. But so is Alfred.

He sits next to me. He doesn’t have a jacket, so he’s wrapped the blanket from earlier around himself. To keep the cold of the wind at bay, I have made us hot chocolate. The mugs stand between us, mine untouched and his almost empty.

I realise that if anyone were to see us from afar, we would look like two friends just hanging out. If I concentrate really hard, I can almost believe it myself. That he is just a new addition to my world, a new islander, or perhaps an old one I have not seen for a long time. But whenever he catches me looking at him and our eyes meet, my fantasy disappears and reality takes over. I remember everything from before, and all I can do is to look away, back at the horizon, and try to find peace in the moment of silence.

Alfred reaches for his mug of hot chocolate, hesitates, and then grabs mine. Before I have a chance to even look, he’s taken a big gulp.

“Look, that was mine!” I say.

His eyes glimmer as he looks at me. “Oh yeah?” he says and lowers the mug to lick his lips. There’s a smudge of chocolate on each side of them, darkening his dimples even more. “Didn’t see a name on it.” He turns the mug between his hands.

“Are you greedy, or dumb, or both?”

“I said, I don’t see no name on here.”

“Both it is,” I say and reach for the mug. He gives it to me, and I lift in high in the air so he can see the bottom. There, scratched atop the IKEA sticker, is my name. “See?”

“Arthur,” he reads out aloud and nods.

“That’s my name.”

“So some things never change.” He puts the mug down and looks at me.

I have to avert his gaze. My heart hurts. “What do you mean by that?”

“You fled for so long, and so far, yet you kept your name. Why?”

“I didn’t flee,” I say. I pluck a handful of grass and count the blades, letting them being caught by the wind one by one. They fly for a little bit, but eventually fall nearby. Apparently, escape is difficult not only for nations. “I made a conscious decision to take control of my own destiny.”

“Okay, but you still kept your name,” Alfred says.

“As said, I wasn’t fleeing. Why shouldn’t I keep my name?”

“I guess you shouldn’t if you didn’t want to be found.”

I glance at him from the corners of my eyes. I know what he’s hinting at, but I am not going to give him the satisfaction. It would be inaccurate anyway.

I never wanted to be found. I tried many places and many faces. I even attempted to live as the other gender. But I soon came to realise that some things were too known to me to be made estranged. I felt a man. I felt around thirty. And I felt my name. It was so ingrained in me that changing it was not an option. Instead of allowing me to escape, it reminded me every day of why I had left all known behind. It ruined the illusion, and to fully become human, I had to believe.

So instead I changed everything else - my looks, my clothes, my life. Instead of cats, I took a liking to dogs. Instead of socialising, I took a liking to isolation. I rediscovered myself. I found peace.

But now, as Alfred watches me and knows me, all that fades away, and I am yet again the blonde, green-eyed guy I was born as.

“I’ve missed you,” Alfred says. His voice is quiet. “Did you not think of that? That I would miss you?”

“You would’ve had an eternity to forget,” I mumble and pluck wool off my sweater.

“Some pain never disappears.”

I rub my eyes and sigh toward the sky. It has darkened. The last rays of sunlight linger - red, yellow, and orange. Like a dying rainbow. “You don’t understand.”

“Of course I understand. You want normality.”

“I want purpose,” I correct him.

Alfred’s lips stretch into a pained expression. “And I didn’t give you that?”

I look at him. Then I stand up and offer him my hand. “Come with me,” I say, and though he hesitates, he grabs my hand, gets up, and follows.

In silence, we walk along the coastline. The sky gets darker around us. Soon, we can see the first stars in the dark blue. At first, Alfred isn’t looking up, he is concentrating on our hands - his in mine, my fingers tightly wrapped around his, leading him. But then, when he does look up, he gasps and stops. “Oh Arthur-!”

The sky has gone green. The light waves and shimmers above us like streams of water, dark green and light streaks of purple, interwoven like threads keeping the sky together.

I watch him with a smile. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Do you see this every night?”

I shake my head. “It depends on the weather. You never know when it may appear. I once spent a week camped out here, and I didn’t see it. Then, that night when I went home, the sky was aflame like tonight.”

Alfred laughs, “Some luck.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it? You can’t plan everything. You just have to enjoy it when it’s there. You never know if it’ll return.”

“Arthur, I know what you’re trying to say, but listen - as a nation, when you live forever, you get to see this again and again. You don’t have to despair if you miss it, it’ll be back! How can that be a bad thing?”

“Because what’s the point of watching the sun set when you know it’ll never truly go down?” My voice is slightly shaking. It makes Alfred take his gaze off the sky and instead watch me.

I am shivering. I want to stop, but I can’t stop. I grab Alfred’s other hand, and I hold them both between mine as I speak: “I need purpose, Alfred. I need to know there will be an end in sight.”

Alfred’s eyes are dark with confusion. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it, then asks, “Why do you crave death so much?”

I have to laugh. It’s a sad laugh. “I don’t crave death. God, Alfred, I don’t want to die, then I’ll never see this!” I nod at the sky, and we both lean our heads back and watch the lights. “But going on forever, that’s what I don’t want. There is no purpose in that. It’s painful. I want to live for something, I want to put all my energy into it, all my love and passion, and I want to feel a burning desire spurred on by the knowledge of it being now or never. I want there to be a never, do you see?”

“But a never means a time without me,” he says.

He is still confused, I see it. So I try another way. “Do you still like Titanic?”

He laughs in surprise. “Uh, yes? I guess?”

“Why?” I ask, and to encourage him I snort, “It’s a bad movie!”

Alfred looks like I just punched him. “How can you say that? It’s amazing! It’s such a strong love, and then the way he dies, just to let her live- I mean, it’s beautiful. Just heartbreaking.”

“He should’ve lived. They could both fit on that piece of wood,” I argue.

“It’s not the point,” Alfred says, and I can tell the passion in his voice. “If he didn’t die, it wouldn’t be so impactful.”

“Exactly,” I say.

“Yeah,” he nods. Then, “Wait, what?”

“I love you, Alfred,” I say. He blushes, even in the dark I can tell, and I let go of his hands to cup his face. His skin is warm against mine. “I love you so much. I want you to do what makes you happy. But I also have to do what makes me happy. Staying with you in secret, forever, never admitting openly who I am? I can’t do it. If I am to love you, I want to love you fully, with no restrictions. If I can’t,” I shake my head and look up again. The lights have disappeared. We are enclosed in darkness. I am grateful, because the tears are streaming down my cheeks. “If I can’t,” I speak in a shaky voice, “then I don’t want to love you at all. It’s all or nothing.”

“Arthur,” Alfred says, but then he says no more. He just holds me, presses me to his chest and wraps the blanket around both of us. So we stand there, holding each other, as time passes like it has, throwing us back and forth through the years, through nations and cities and different looks. We stand together.

And when the sun rises, he has made a decision.

* * *

I always imagined myself dying in water. Not drowning, just dying. Perhaps it’s a byproduct of watching Titanic too many times. I always imagined the death was caused by grief rather than water filling his lungs. But then I’ve always been a romantic, albeit a tragic one.

I throw one last look down the mountainside before I turn to walk back to the hut. Alfred is standing in the doorway, a DVD in his hand and his brows raised. “You brought it all the way up here?” The closer I come, the more of the front I can see until the letters clarify for me that I am looking at ‘Titanic’.

I smile, “Well, is an evening complete if we don’t watch it?”

“I mean, it’s good but once a day for over a month?” Alfred grimaces.

“Is there something you’d rather do?”

“A lot of things.”

“Good, keep them in mind while we watch,” I say and snatch the DVD from his hand with a smirk. “I didn’t climb halfway up a mountain not to get my daily fix.”

“Okay,” Alfred sighs as he closes the cabin door. “But I’ll never truly understand why you like it so much.”

We settle in the sofa, Rosie by our feet, and start the DVD. We drink hot chocolate and chat, and we talk about the movie but mostly about what we want to do tomorrow, next week, a year from now. Perhaps we want to buy a house. Perhaps we want children. Perhaps it will not work out. Perhaps it will.

Only time can tell. And it won’t be an eternity. And it won’t be centuries. But it will be enough.


End file.
